


Iron

by LetMeEntertainYou



Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: Gen, anemia, anemic!john, roger is arrested for stinky boy crimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-16
Updated: 2019-05-16
Packaged: 2020-03-06 14:29:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18852952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LetMeEntertainYou/pseuds/LetMeEntertainYou
Summary: “Um. I don’t know. Uh. Perhaps I am ill,” John said, which were his last words before he flopped back down onto the ground, his skin growing pale.





	Iron

**Author's Note:**

> My blog is Disabled-Queen-HC on tumblr.  
> Anon asked: I don’t know if this really counts as a disability, but anemic!john and everyone is always real worried for him if he stands up too fast and falls, always making sure he’s 100% okay before continuing whatever they were doing

One minute John was sitting on the couch with the others, laughing at a joke Roger had made and the next he was face first on the floor, eyes rolled back. 

After some yelling (Freddie’s yells were so terrifying everyone else couldn’t help but to start screaming too), the surrounded the bassist, rolling him onto his back and fanned his face.

“John, sweetheart, wake up!” Freddie said as he held John’s hand, heart pounding loud enough for everyone in the room to hear. John just gurgled, head lolling to one side.

“My god, he’s died,” Roger said, his eyes impossibly big. Brian punched the absolute shit out of his arms, hissing out

“Why in the bloody hell would you say that?” 

Roger just rubbed his arm, grumbling something about him not thinking straight when he was nervous. 

They didn’t have to bicker any longer, John mumbling, “’M not dead,”

Freddie cried out, throwing himself onto John’s chest, sobbing. He too, did not think straight (or at all) when nervous. 

“Deacy, what is happening? That’s the second time today! Are you ill?” Freddie wailed, protesting when the others tried to drag him off the recuperating John. John just waved them off, struggling to sit up as the world spun.

He wasn’t quite sure what was happening. He’d been fine the day before. Maybe a little bruised up for reasons he wasn’t sure of, but he felt fine. Today though, he woke up woozy, stumbling and light headed. He felt tired and like his brain was covered in a fog. Maybe he should’ve stayed home.

“Um. I don’t know. Uh. Perhaps I am ill,” John said, which were his last words before he flopped back down onto the ground, his skin growing pale. 

He came to, squished into the back of Roger’s car, smothered in between a rigid Brian and a crying Freddie, all while Roger drove like a maniac (moreso than usual)

“What’s happening,” he whispered, the black dots in his vision fading.

“Taking you to hospital. You’re obviously very unwell,” Brian answered for Freddie who only started to cry harder. 

John wasn’t one to make a fuss about his health, but he was beginning to be very thankful he didn’t stay home. He couldn’t imagine what he would’ve done if he had fainted all alone. 

In record time they made it to the hospital, Roger having sweat through his shirt in an unbelievable way. Well, he got them there, didn’t he? He didn’t have to look or smell particularly nice. They lugged in a John who was very capable of walking inside by himself but he didn’t say anything because he felt a little tingly and the last thing he wanted to do was face plant on asphalt. 

After a battery of tests and wet tissues on Freddie’s part, John was set up in a curtained room in the ER, wearing a very fashionable hospital gown, gigantic needle in his arm pumping into his body the very much needed iron. 

“You almost killed your mother over  _ **anemia**_?” Freddie said, part playfully, part seriously as he sat on one corner of John’s tiny hospital bed. 

Happily munching away on ice chips, John nodded, a cheeky smile on his face, clearly already feeling better. “Sorry, mum,” he said, which made Freddie feel a little better. 

“Seriously, mate. You nearly gave us all a heart attack. Thought you were on death’s door!” Brian said, sitting on the chair next to John’s bed, head resting on one of John’s cushion. Anxiety sapped every last bit of energy the guitarist already didn’t have. 

John just giggled, slightly enjoying the attention and worry the boys were directing at him. It wasn’t every day he had those rowdy guys asking him to fluff his pillow or wipe the sweat from his brow. Especially since the diagnosis wasn’t even bad. He’d have to take iron pills from now on and eat iron rich foods but that was it. No big deal. 

“No point in crying about the past. How are you feeling now, Deaks?” Roger asked from the floor. He smelled so awful he was banished to the cold tile floor. 

“A little better. Mouth tastes like metal. Could be worse,” John said, looking at the single tuft of blond hair that showed where Roger was sitting by the bed. 

They all nodded, letting out a sigh of relief. They really all thought their youngest was done for. Knowing that the little shit just needed to eat some more spinach made them all go limp, ready for a nap. 

And they all did. Snuggling into the tiny bed, Freddie, John and Brian dozed off. Not Roger. Roger was on the floor for smelly boy crimes. He pouted the whole time. At least his best friend didn’t die.  _Whatever_.


End file.
